


The Cure

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cicero is protective, Cicero is trouble, Companionship, F/M, He likes you but he doesn't really know he likes you, Reader is the Listener, Reader isn't the Dragonborn, Subtext, Y'all are a bunch of slick killers, You almost die, twice, very light romance, you don't know he likes you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: He's crazy, and dangerous, but you've got a murder quota to fill so you take him along with you everywhere you go. He's quite colorful and rambunctious, for a killer, and you could always use a laugh. Though, lately, you haven't been doing much laughing, and he hasn't been doing much talking.





	The Cure

**Author's Note:**

> The title, for those of you that have played the game, is of course alluding to a dialogue option when you are sent to kill Cicero in the Dawnstar Sanctuary.

The air is still, calm, and you breathe it in greedily. But a few minutes ago fire was roaring, giant wings of glimmering bronze were beating voraciously, and you were awash in adrenaline and blood that was as hot as the embers of a fire. Scales were sliced apart by your enchanted blade and you were showered in hissing splatters of dragon’s blood.

In your peripherals he moved with grace and poise, his own daggers a blur of harsh steel. He was in a frenzy, like he always is, and his strikes were quick and mean. He never tired, he just kept slicing and dicing away, and in doing so, garnered the winged beast’s attention.

It took no time at all for the dragon to expire.

You two made a good team. Where you were calculated risk, and tempered patience he was rash and brazen and nearly tactless. He almost- without fail -would have every possible foe trained on him. Whether it was the loud outfit, or his loud mouth, it’s hard to say.

He has a way of getting everyone’s attention.

You’re sitting in the grass on top a hill overlooking the mayhem your previous battle wrought. Great craters, yards of burned grass and tundra cotton, smoking trees, tears in the ground like scars- it was chaos.

Typically when you fight dragons you can maintain the mayhem to a small area, but…

You glance at him from your peripherals. He’s sated for the moment, a serene smile plucking his thin lips wide.

He breeds chaos, coaxes it from dark corners, and pulls it kicking and screaming from silent avenues. He’s trouble, through and through, and he’s gotten the both of you kicked out of a number of bars and inns. And no matter how angry you wanted to be with him, he’d have this glee, this glimmer in his eye and he’d smile at you, seeking your reaction like a puppy…so, you’d strangle your irritation and the two of you would move on, no sleep, no rest.

Tall, dried grass whispers in the breeze, and insects buzz incessantly around the area, drawn to the blood and the sweat. A bead of it rolls down your jaw, and you let it travel further still if only to feel the delightful sensation of it cooling on your skin.

He hums, high-pitched and terribly off-key, but you smile furtively, and drop back on your forearms in the long grass to peer at the sky. It’s muddled with pinks and blues, soft purples, and an aurora dances on the forefront like a lively snake.

Far off in the distance a group of wolves howl together in song, on the hunt, and your thoughts jump back to a few weeks ago when you and him were caught off guard in the forests a little north of Falkreath by werewolves. It had been dark, and you were tired from the 7-hour trek from Whiterun to Falkreath.

You had the beginnings of a manor near Lake Ilinalta and you could think of nothing but the warm bed in the foyer. You would even forego a bath, though you desperately needed one.

He was feelings the effects of fatigue and the less than fulfilling dinner you had both had hours before. A few slices of cheese on bread, and a shared bottle of ale.

They had most likely been tracking the two of you since you left Falkreath. The growls arrived only a moment before they did. You had your sword unsheathed faster than the blink of an eye, and not a moment too soon because they were upon the both of you with gleaming teeth and vicious claws.

Snarling and grunting, shapes darting in the underbrush and disappearing through the trees, it was a long and arduous battle. And your sword-strokes were slowing, your aim failing by scant inches. As the battle worn on, you were wearing out. But, one by one, the beasts were slain.

There was a moment of panic, for you both, when you were tackled by one of the beasts. The last one standing. Your sword clattered from your grip and you gasped, called out as his name as giant teeth dripping in saliva neared your throat.

Adrenaline drove him, fear too, as instinct took over and he hurled a dagger at the furry mass bearing down on you. The steel embedded itself in the werewolf’s ribs and it gave a mighty howl, looked up to growl at him and it was over.

He had picked up your sword, bounded in strides as large as he could manage and drove the blade up through its jaw, until it protruded from the top of its skull, bloodied steel glinting in the moonlight. He kicked the carcass off you, and hauled you to your feet with shaking hands, wild eyes raking your form in worry.

His amber eyes seemed to glow in the dark, alight with relief, disbelief. His fingers curled tightly around your shoulders, and his own sagged as he sighed heavily and dropped his gaze. You had grabbed your sword, and started towards the manor, and he followed. But now he followed closer, a hand on the hilt of one of his daggers, and eyes that darted everywhere, now sharpened with caution, and indignation.

He must be thinking back to that night too because he straightens minutely, and the look he sends you is tight, strained. You force yourself to relax, to sink a little further back on your arms, and stretch your legs a little longer.

His muscles loosen, and he turns his gaze back to the horizon. But a hand now rests at his hip, over one of his daggers, now enchanted, because you’ve picked up on the skill and its usefulness. And he humors you however he can. If you think it will help your chances of survival, well, who is he to argue?

He has his word to keep. He swore he would serve you in whatever way you asked. He’s fought at your side for he doesn’t know how many months, and there have been a few close calls. But none as terrible as that night.

His jaw tingles with nausea every time he thinks of it. He hasn’t let you out of his sight since then, not if he can help it. You’re a skilled fighter, even have a knack for spells and magic, but…you aren’t invincible. He was reminded of that simple- but easily forgettable -fact that night outside of Falkreath.

When he heard you say his name, his name ripped from you in fear and desperation, his blood froze. He had never heard you utter his name that way. It drove all sense from him, not that he has a lot to begin with, mind you, but-

It was nearly his undoing. The nature of your call to him was so close to a goodbye and an apology…the idea of it makes his blood itch. You aren’t allowed to die before him. He won’t let you.

He peers at you sidelong, and grins. From his perch he can see over the tall grass, he can keep watch over you. You’re peaceful, head tilted back, neck stretched long, lips quirked in an easy smile. He enjoys you like this, when you’re still.

You both have a long way to go yet, Dawnstar as your destination. But neither of you are in a hurry, and that’s just how he prefers it. You’ve never minded his ceaseless chatter, or his mad mutterings, but he’s noticed in last few months that his tongue has gone oddly limp.

He talks less and contemplates more. He contemplates _you._

Not as Listener, not as a Dark Brotherhood member. Just you.

The you that stands in rain with your face pointed skyway, a grin on your mouth. The you that can’t fight the urge to climb tall trees and buildings because you like ‘being tall’. He thinks about the you that picks any and all books you find in your travels, and the way you devour them at night by the campfire, your eyes glittering and gleaming, your facial expressions varying in accordance to the tale your eyes are discovering.

He doesn’t think of his past anymore. The loneliness that haunts him like a ghost, that is gone. He isn’t lonely anymore. He can’t even remember what lonely feels like.

Something hits him in the shoulder and he blinks rapidly. You have small rocks gathered in the palm of one hand, the other is empty and still lowering to your lap. He quirks an expressive eyebrow. You threw a rock at him.

“Yes?” he says, angling his body towards you, and you frown lightly.

“You’ve been staring at me.” You tell him succinctly, and toss the rocks you’ve found elsewhere.

He blinks at you owlishly. Oops. He hadn’t meant to, but he’s very good at doing things he doesn’t mean to do. It’s one of his specialties.

He won’t apologize for looking at you, though. Accidental though it was.

“Is something on your mind?” You ask him, and sit up on your knees, buttocks resting on your heels.

He drops his gaze, eyes roving over his red and black striped slacks, and his gold embroidered shoes. He remembers, somewhat in a daze that he can’t stand the color gold. And stripes…stripes are so unflattering.

You always look so comfortable, so…lithe and deadly in your black leather. But so elegant with those blood red sashes tied around your waist, blowing in the wind so eerily.

When you stop for dinner tonight he won’t stir up a ruckus. He’ll be good. You look so tired, and your skin has lost some pallor because you’re always on the move and missing out on good meals. He’ll make sure you get a proper meal tonight, and plenty of rest.

And maybe while you’re sleeping he’ll go out and buy a journal and he’ll begin detailing your adventures together, and writing down everything he thinks about you. Maybe, when you both return to the sanctuary he’ll see about getting some leather armor.

And maybe, just maybe, he can convince you to stay for a little while. To take a little break, because-

He still thinks of that great hulking beast bent over you, jaws wide and teeth glinting, and you laying there helpless in the dirt. And something in him aches.

“Cicero?”

Your voice draws him back out of his mind, and you’re standing now, walking towards him with the smallest of furrows between your brows, with blood speckled along your armor and the side of your face. He can’t believe- looking at you now -that the two of you were almost dinner for those werewolves.

You had taken down a dragon with hardly any injuries to show for it!

He wrestles himself free of his bitter musings and stands, dawns his usual carefree smile. And you stop short of a few feet from him, eyes swimming in curiosity for his sudden mood change, but you broach the subject no further.

He is prone to bouts of sullen silence, to petulant muttering under his breath, and incessant staring paired with puppy dog eyes…a short lapse in conversation and focus is no excuse for your worry. Even so, as you suggest the two of you get a move on in order to reach Whiterun before nightfall, you watch him inquisitively.

He hums to himself, and chuckles at random intervals, no doubt telling jokes in his head, but something still seems off about the usually serendipitous jester, and you can’t put your finger on it.

An hour’s walk from Whiterun you’re set upon by bandits. They aren’t well organized, at all. They charge at you in Cicero in full view, and even the archer they have set up is perched somewhere with no cover. A well-shot firebolt has that archer flailing and screaming and burning to a smoldering pile of flesh before the others even reach you.

And it’s there, as you reach for the dagger at your hip, and ready your sword-hand that you realize Cicero is still at your side. He isn’t sprinting into the fray with a joyful war cry, or taunting your enemies. He’s quiet and poised, and ready to kill.

And all through the fight he remains close by, a few feet away. And he catches your eye on many an occasion, and he seems worried, concerned of your whereabouts and your progress in battle. He makes quick work of his own adversaries and rushes to help you before their bodies have even hit the ground.

The bandits are common riff-raff, and pose no threat. But Cicero is critical, his swipes smooth but hard, his amber eyes narrowed to mere slits in concentration, gleaming like embers in the night. You parry a broad stroke from the last bandit’s axe and throw him off balance.

Cicero is there, suddenly between you and the burly assailant, slithering into the minimal space like a viper, and he lashes out with his daggers, swiping across the man’s throat once, twice in opposing directions.

The bandit’s eyes are wide in surprise and fear and his hands come up to staunch the bloodflow, clasping around his neck in desperation.

You’ve seen this too many times to count. You sheathe your weapons and go about looting the bodies, leaving Cicero to trail behind and do whatever it is he does. You pocket a few coins, a few lockpicks, even a gem from the bandits and stand.

When you turn around, Cicero is far behind, standing over that bandit’s corpse with a stony expression on his face. Odd, even for him.

You saunter over, adjusting the weight of your gold pouch at your belt, the coins jingling merrily. “Cicero, are you alright?” you call to him, wondering if perhaps he had been nicked by a poisoned blade, or arrow. You have a few cure poison potions on hand, thankfully.

He doesn’t respond. His dagger is clenched in a tight fist, his shoulders tense.

Concerned, you jog back, dodging corpses and splashing in blood puddles. When you are near enough, you drop a hand onto his shoulder and he jumps with a gasp. Before you can register what’s happening, your back is on the ground and his bloody knife is at your throat, prepared to slice.

Just as the blade stings your neck, both of your wide gazes meet, and like an arrow from a bow, realization hits him.

He’s horrified at himself. He scrambles away from you hastily, dropping his dagger in the process, his lively orbs alight with regret and confusion.

You sit up in a stupor, and drag a couple fingertips across your throat. They come away red. Cicero is locked in on the blood on your fingers, he’s struck into a perfect picture of guilt. You don’t blame him. The life of an assassin is stressful, and as much as you are the predator you are also very much the prey.

You can’t count how many times people have tried to kill you since joining the Dark Brotherhood. You’re surprised you haven’t snapped yet. It’s no wonder Cicero…he’s never quite been in his right mind to begin with.

“I hope it wasn’t poisoned,” you joke with a wry smile, and climb to your feet. Cicero stares up at you, unblinking. He flinches when you offer him a hand, and you ignore the twinge of melancholy that rises up in you: that he would think you’d retaliate.

Hesitantly, he grabs your hand and lets you haul him to his feet.

You pick up his dagger, laying a few feet away in the grass and return it to him. He’s pensive, but apologetic, his gaze low.

“Don’t worry about it, Cicero,” you say, and pat his shoulder as you pass. “I’m sure you just need rest. I wouldn’t mind a warm bed and a hot meal, either.”

Cicero watches your back, watches for any signs of tension in your shoulders, stiffening of the arms…but you’re completely at ease. Even after he almost sliced your throat. Could you really trust him that much?

“Cicero, are you coming?” you call over your shoulder, a hand raised, beckoning him after you.

As if he needed encouragement.

“Of course!” he tries to put merriment in his tone, but he’s just a few shades shy of it. “I’ll follow you anywhere, dear Listener!”

And he will.

He has.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting for a while, and posted it somewhere else, and it hasn't gotten any attention so here we are. Just wanted it out there, I suppose. I'll be seeing you all.


End file.
